


Cornerstone

by Ealasaid, Pavuvu



Series: between the crosses [6]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Children, Death Omens, Gen, Ghosts, Graveyard Dog, Lore-Freeform, Pre-Canon, Shenanigans, Supernatural Elements, the grim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:54:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23403325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pavuvu/pseuds/Pavuvu
Summary: It starts with a dare and ends in a graveyard. William Schofield encounters his first ghost.
Series: between the crosses [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656289
Comments: 19
Kudos: 37





	Cornerstone

**Author's Note:**

> Because we all deserve something a little lighter in these trying times.

Henry Locke’s Gran had visited him over the Easter Hols and just like every visit from the old woman, Henry Locke now had a brand new taw (a cat’s eye, this time!) and a new story about the Old Ways to share with the four other boys at the schoolyard. 

“Really? Another Fairie Tale? ‘S fake I tell you.” Anthony Ambers sneers. 

“Is not!” Henry insists, “Gran said!” 

Anthony rolls his eyes and waves his hand at Jimmy Dorsey for back up. The younger lad nods emphatically at the prompting and forces Henry to scour the circle of boys for his own ally. 

“Will,” Henry says, just a touch desperately. “You was there. Tell’em it's true!” 

Four sets of eyes turn towards the young man in question. Eleven years old, coming off a growth spurt and scrawny with it, William Schofield, presses his lips together and nods once. “Gran said.” He affirms and the boys around him let loose a chorus of protest.

“Yeah, well, Old Gran may have said, but I still think it's a bunch of _bollocks_ ” Antony says, puffed up and proud of his use of such an adult word.

The crowd devolves into an argument of ‘Is not!’ ‘Is too’ until Johnny Dorsey, the oldest and therefore the most respected member of the gaggle sighs out and says. “You’ll have to prove it.” 

Four faces turn towards him. “Prove it?” Henry asks, puffed up and red faced from his argument.

“Yeah prove it” Anthony laughs.

“Your Gran says that there is a ghost dog that haunts graveyards. You have to prove it.” Johnny states with a firm nod. “Tonight at the Haggate. You’ll go, take Will as your second. He’ll vouch for you and he’s trustworthy.”

Will’s face sours and he glares a bit at Henry for getting him involved. “Why’s he need a second? We’re not dueling.”

“The Haggate is miles out! You can't expect us--” Henry starts but is quickly shut up by Johnny's firm expression.

“The Haggate. Tonight.” Johnny affirms and leads the group inside as the school bell tolls.

***

The bell tolls ten times. Ten times and William Schofield finishes tying the laces on his old leather shoes. The soles are soft and worn and perfect for sneaking down the creaky old staircase outside his parents room. But he is still careful to step at the very edges of the stairs as he moves down them, where the boards butt up and the wooden planks laid atop them have the most support. 

He is careful and slow until he is on the main floor, and then he is careful and fast as he makes for the kitchen and the window he had left propped open in the cool spring air. It is a bit of a production, to climb out the sill without knocking over the grouping of empty glass milk bottles and the potted daisy just barely shooting up green, but he manages it with only the slightest clinking of glass. 

It is easy then to move from the patch of dirt that his mother calls a garden to the hole in the fence that will let him into the narrow alley between the storefront townhomes of St. James' Street, to the strictly residential Red Lion Lane. 

Henry’s house isn't far, and while the darkness and lack of street lamps in the alley way does make it hard to navigate, sneaking out of the house for a bit of mischief is hardly new for Will. The key is, and always has been, since his first failed foray a year ago, to follow ones nose. A good nose will lead a person around lurking garbage bins and late night waste left by the drunks coming out of the pub and lead one safely though the darkness to the overwhelming evergreen scent of the privet shrubs that ring the Locke’s home. 

It is easy enough then, to stoop down, grab a handful of gravel from the mulch beneath the shrub and toss pebbles at the top left window until a body forces its way from under the shrubs with a soft. “Alright. Alright already, I heard you.” 

Henry brushes some dirt off his pant leg and taps Will’s arm to get him moving, down to where the alley dumps onto the curve of St. James’s. 

“You bring the stuff?” Henry whispers as they walk.

Will’s hand presses once against his pocket then skitters away when he feels the thin matchbook and pocket knife within. “Got em. You?”

“Snuck a bit of bread at dinner. Candlestick from my bedside.” 

“Do spirit dogs even like bread?”

“Gran says the fairies do, that you gotta leave them some milk and bread out on the window sill every night, or you’ll get back luck.” 

“Dog’s not a fairie.” Will says, as they make their way to the road that will take them out of Burney proper toward Haggate and the old cemetery within.

“What would you know?” Henry shoots back then starts to whine, “Ugh, why’d John make us go all the way out Haggate? St. James’s churchyard is just down the way and it's just as old!”

“There’s no one around that talks about St. James’s being haunted.” Will says, shoving his chilled hands into his pockets. “John’s just giving you a chance.” 

“A chance! You think I need a chance?! The dog’s real. My Gran’s stories are real.”

“Okay,” Will agrees before Henry can get onto his full rant. “How’d the story go again?”

Henry blows out a puff of air and splashes through a puddle. “Goes like this. Back when people was building churches, they’d make a sac-ri-fice to the church foundation, and bury a dog under the cornerstone. So it’s ghost would get trapped in the church and it’d serve as a guard dog to the people buried there. Keep out the witches and the devils, right? Make sure none of their souls would get turned to evil before they got taken up to heaven and all that. 

“Anyway these dead dogs start to haunt the place, show up at midnight all spectral and huge. They become Church Grims and that, Will, is what we’re finding tonight.”

The belltower strikes once from far behind them, marking the half hour and the boys pick up their pace. They have a dog to meet at midnight. 

***

The Haggate Baptist Church Burial Ground is much like any other cemetary in Lancashire. Rectangular, sits beside a church, and older than the dirt is brown. The yard itself is surrounded by mudstone walls topped in wrought metal fencing. The pickets capped in spikes shaped like arrowheads and the cemetary gate just as imposing, with its curled metal grate and sure to be squeaky hinges.

“No way around it.” Henry says with a sigh.”Should’ve brought some bacon fat.”

“Grim probably _would_ like that better than the bread.” Will teases as he slides his arm between the gates posts and fumbles around for a latch.

Henry snickers then presses his hand to his mouth, eyes flashing to the pastor's house across the way. Will also presses his lips closed, mimes locking them and carefully eases the latch up.

Henry grabs hold of the door and pulls it slowly back even while Will extracts his arm. Once he’s free, Henry jerks the gate back and follows Will through before the hinges can make their protests known.

They stand then on the gravel walkway and stare out at the dark shadows of the graveyard, the moon and distant streetlight doing little to chase the darkness away. Distantly, the belltower strikes eleven.

“Well.” Will says, “What should we do?”

Henry takes a sharp breath and steps forward, his hand dipping into his pocket and pulling out a new candlestick and the marbled rye from dinner. “You have the matches?” 

“Course” Will dips into his own pocket and strikes a match from the book he recovers. He lights the candle and Henry leads them down the narrow path between graves. Passing old in ground slabs with inscriptions wiped clean by centuries of rain, to monument pillars and old family mausoleums. They come to a stop near the center of the yard, where an elder tree stands tall and budding with new leaves.

They settle below it, backs pressed against its smooth bark and settle in with the candle between them. 

“You really think it’ll be here?” Will asks, as he pulls his pocket knife out and grabs a stick from the wet earth. He slowly shaves off pieces of wood as Henry rolls the bread between his palms, until it has formed a hard doughy ball.

“It has to be. Gran wouldn't lie. Would she?”

Will is silent for a moment then shakes his head. “Nah, course not.” He presses his elbow against his friend's arm and sinks down into his space. “The Grim’ll come, and you’ll prove Antony wrong and then the next time your Gran tells you a fairie story _he’ll_ be the one who has to prove it.” 

Henry laughs quietly and leans back against him. “Yeah, your right.” 

They settle in to wait, talking quietly as they hear the bell tower chime once on the half hour. Minutes pass and the candle flickers.

“Nearly there.” Will says as he slowly shreds another twig. Henry grunts sleepily beside him, eyes blinking in the slow manner of one trying to stave off Orpheus’ advances. 

Henry yawns, and suddenly it's all Will can do to stay awake, like his eyelids are being pressed down with dressmakers’ weights. He struggles to keep them open. He hears the soft patter of a ball falling into leaf litter and his hands clench tight around his blankets— no around his pocket knife, around the wooden handle with the iron studs...

And somnolence deserts him -- just like that. His eyelids lift. The clock strikes twelve.

The candle flickers and smokes as though extinguished -- then flares back to life brighter than ever, white-flamed and ghastly. The sky above has become a marbled page of constellations, the stars and planetoids bursting forth into a show of light and color and edges that spread into each other like fat drops of watercolour. 

Will forces himself to his feet, hand pressed to Henry's shoulder to shake him awake with wild urgency. Will yelps out Henry’s name, voice going loud and high as fog rises between the gravestones and unnatural shadows begin to dance at the corner of his eye. 

Despite Will’s best attempts, Henry doesn’t stir, just sleeps soundly through his shaking and his yelling, and -- oh, oh god, there is a _dog._

It is massive and black, with ears that stand tall and a snout as pointed as a wolf’s. Its fur is long and shaggy and its eyes -- its eyes are pure white, like the shining Chinese silk Mum has folded away in storage. They glow brighter than the candle that sits not a foot from Will. 

“Henry!” Will shrieks, but his friend remains silent, soundly asleep. 

The dog— no, _The Grim_ \-- it looks at him as it steps forward. 

Will bolts.

He charges down the narrow pathways, feet skidding over muddy patches, hand clenched tight around his pocket knife as he makes for the gates and he rushes and runs and struggles to safety. He can hear the footfalls behind him, each the sound of distant church bells, discordant and echoing, he can feel the beast's hot breath against his free hand. 

The Grim overtakes him, stepping in front of the graveyard gate, and it happens too quickly for Will to stop. He crashes into the beast, tumbles head over heels, and lands in a pile of wiry fur and hard muscle.

Will is shaking, trembling so hard you could use him to agitate his mother's washing. (Trembling so hard it would take fourteen years and experiencing his first bombardment on the front to experience this kind of fear again.)

He is crying, spilling tears into the dirt when the Grim extricates itself. Makes its way to its feet with a very doggie whuff and shoves its nose into the tight ball that Will has become. It snuffles his ears and whines, and flops back to the ground with an airy sort of thump when Will doesn’t respond. 

It whines and waits and does not gobble him up. Will looks at the Grim from the between the cage of his fingers. It wags its tail at him, frantic sweeps of the flagstone pathway that sends fog spinning and the fading scent of wet dog to his nose.

Will untangles himself slowly, pushing up to his knees warily until he is kneeling and sore from his tumble -- and his arms are suddenly full of a very happy dog. All wiggly body and fluffy fur and pink tongue that drags wet kisses up his face until the snot and tears are cleaned away and then over his scraped knuckles until the blood is gone and they sting with nothing more than the raw memory of an ache. 

“Hello,” Will breathes out, totally baffled, and the Grim woofs lowly and presses one last kiss to his cheek. It takes a few steps away then and looks at the boy over its shoulder. Its tail wags slowly but hopefully and Will pushes himself to his feet and steps after it. They walk down the flagstone path back to the center of the graveyard where the Elder tree stands and Henry sleeps on. The Grim sits, tall and proud as any statue, and Will comes to stand beside it, hand pressing gently to the space between its ears, then drawing backwards down the neck. 

“That’s quite a hound you have, young man.” The voice surprises him -- Will startles and staggers back.

There is an old woman there, standing in her nightgown, as translucent and pearly as the fog.

“I -- I -- ” Will stutters. “It’s not my dog.”

The old woman huffs, and adjusts the loose button of her sleeve. “It rather seems to me that it is. Now, you wouldn’t happen to know what’s going on here? I’ve the feeling there is somewhere I need to be.” 

“I...no sorry. This is a graveyard. The only reason people come here is for the dead, isn’t it?”

She looks at him rather pointedly and says, “Well, you’re here, aren’t you?”

“Erm,” Will says.

“And I’m here, so certainly it can't be that.”

“I’m here for the dog,” Will says slowly. “It . . . was a dare, you see.” 

“Hmm! Best to avoid those, young man. You’ll get into trouble if you keep letting dog dares control you.” She looks fair pleased with herself and pulls a pair of spectral glasses from the ether to set on her face.

The Grim woofs again, a deep barrel-chested noise that reverberates the air around them. 

The woman’s eyes move from Will to the beast and for a moment her form shivers like wind blowing through trees heavy with leaves. She swallows hard. “I thought Grave Dogs were just stories. Damn!”

She turns again to Will, face miserable with suppressed hope. “You wouldn’t happen to be an angel then?”

The boy shakes his head and the woman signs. “No that would have been too much to ask.” She pauses then, seems to steel herself. “Do you know where I’m going? Is it...will it be good?”

A second time Will shakes his head in the negative. “I don’t know, I’m sorry.” 

The woman nods once firm, and steps towards the Grim. “I’ll just have to find out then. Thank you, young man, as far as last conversations could have gone, well, it might have been worse.” 

With that, the woman presses her hand to the Grims head and the woman— no the ghost, disappears into nothingness. 

For a long moment all is quiet, the Grim stands still, the fog falls to the ground and sits there an opaque film. Then the world tilts, the sky above sharpens and pulls apart and condensed back into individual stars set like pearls into the fabric of an evening gown. The candle flickers once twice a third time from white to orange then snuffs out entirely. Between one blink and the next the Grim is gone. 

***

For a long moment Will just stands there, staring at the spot beside him that once held a very large dog, but now is empty but for some dew touched stones. “Huh.” He says quietly to himself, bemusement rising steadily up his breastbone until he cannot hold back the smile any longer. How does he even begin to explain this to Henry and the rest of them?

With a start, he remembers his slumbering friend. Will looks -- but there is Henry, safe, still sleeping away beneath the Elder tree. On wobbly legs, Will returns to Henry’s side and shakes him.

“Oi!” he hisses. “Henry, wake up!”

Henry stirs, mumbling something about wanting another five minutes. Will pinches him sharply.

“Ow!” Henry cries, sitting up abruptly. Will hurriedly shoves a hand over his mouth. “Shh!” he warns him. Catching sight of Will, and not his mother, Henry freezes. Both of their eyes dart between each other’s faces to the pastor’s residence, searching nervously for a light.

A long minute goes by.

“Quick,” Will whispers. “Let’s get out of here, and then I’ll tell you what happened.”

“Why can’t we talk here?” Henry asks. He looks horribly disappointed once Will removes his hand. “I fell asleep, Will, I didn’t see anything.” 

“Yeah, but I did,” Will says heatedly. “And I don’t want to get caught, so let’s go somewhere where we won’t wake someone up.”

Henry looks doubtful, but he lets Will pull him to his feet. Together, they squeeze out of the gate and start making their way home. As they go, Will quietly describes the entire encounter -- from not being able to wake up Henry, to the dog’s appearance, to getting slobbered all over, the ghost -- all of it. Henry listens, looking increasingly skeptical.

“I mean, it’s a good story, Will,” Henry says, clearly trying not to hurt Will’s feelings. “It’s better than some of the ones Gran has told me! But . . .”

“You don’t believe me?” Will feels astonished. Then, he feels angry. “The other boys picked me because you all know I don’t make these sorts of things up. Why would I do it now?” 

“Well, maybe you’re trying to make me feel better! I don’t know, Will, but I can’t tell Anthony I saw it when I fell asleep!” 

Henry’s voice has escalated to slightly higher than his normal speaking volume. In the quiet of the night, it’s practically a shout. Will looks at his friend and sees that Henry is really upset now, eyes starting to shine and face pinking in a way that means tears. 

“All right,” Will says as they come up to Henry’s house. “You tell them what you like. Lie, if you want. I’ll tell them what I saw and back you up if you do.”

They’ve reached the privet bushes, their pine scent sparking as the boys brush along their branches. “Fine,” Henry says, still sounding like he wants to cry. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Will doesn’t bother staying to watch his friend climb back up to the window. It’s well past midnight, and he is supposed to wake early in the morning to help Papa in the shop. He heads for home and manages to slip back into his bed without waking anyone. Despite the mad adventure, he cannot fight the pull of sleep that drags him quickly downwards.

The next morning passes like Will hasn’t had a life-altering event the night before. Seams need reinforcement, pocket squares need folding, shelves need dusting. This goes on until noon when Papa dismisses him for lunch, but he gets permission from Mum to take his lunch outside so long as he returns when the bell strikes one. 

Will tracks down the boys, all of whom are playing taws outside the book shop on Hargreaves Street. Eleanor, Anthony’s older sister, and Charlotte, the baker’s daughter, are watching them. Henry is there and playing, too, but he is definitely not happy. When he sees Will, he positively sulks.

The other boys notice and a halt is called to the game. “A-ha!” Anthony says, triumph making him sound even cockier than usual. “Schofield finally arrives. Henry says you didn’t see the Grim.”

“No, I haven’t!” Henry cries. “I haven’t told you lot anything yet!”

“It’s plain enough you didn’t see anything, or you wouldn’t be in such a sorry state right now!”

Henry shoves Anthony. Johnny Dorsey steps in as Anthony starts to shove back.

“Stop it, both of you,” he orders. “Don’t mess up the ring, we’ve still got a game to play.”

“I’ve only got until one,” Will says before anyone can start something new. He doesn’t want to be late for the afternoon shop hours, and sometimes his friends can bicker forever _._

“Go on then,” Anthony says.

Henry takes a deep breath. “Well -- you’re sort of right. I didn’t see anything, because-I-fell-asleep.” He finishes his sentence fast, trying to keep the other boys from jumping in. “But --”

“Hah!” Anthony says. “I knew it!”

“But,” Will says very loudly over Anthony, “I didn’t fall asleep, and I _did_ see it.” 

Everyone stares at him. Anthony’s jaw actually hangs open; Will gets a lovely view of the greens in his teeth before he snaps it shut. 

“What on earth are you talking about?” Eleanor interrupts. Her hands are on her hips in that no-nonsense attitude that Mum has when Papa says something _really_ stupid. 

“The Grim,” Will says. 

“The what?”

Anthony has recovered. “It isn’t anything,” he says, and points at Henry. “His gran told him a fairie tale, and these two think it’s real.”

“You left out the dare,” Will tells Anthony, and turns to Eleanor. “They dared Henry to go stay in the graveyard to prove it, and made me be his second.”

Eleanor looks mightily unimpressed. Charlotte mutters something disgustedly that sounds like “boys.”

“Okay,” Jimmy pipes up. “But I still don’t believe you could have seen it. Fairies aren’t real!”

“The Grim wasn’t a fairie,” Will retorts. “Look. I felt tired, too -- really tired. But I didn’t fall asleep. The bell rang midnight and -- and --” he falters a little at describing the feeling, so he just barrels straight on to the dog. “There was a big dog. Huge! It looked a little like a wolf but it was totally black. And the eyes were white.”

Will gets the sense that his conviction is persuasive. He can see Johnny believes him, at least -- and he had _better,_ since Johnny’s the one who put him up to this in the first place. But Jimmy is still skeptical, though, Henry _still_ thinks Will is lying to help him, and Anthony is still a prick.

“Well, if Henry didn’t see anything, he didn’t prove it,” Anthony says, stubborn to the last. “That was the dare, remember?”

“But if Will says he saw it --” Johnny starts.

 _“Boys,”_ says Eleanor, deeply aggrieved. She slaps a hand over her brother’s mouth before he can make more than a protesting “NNnn!”

“Shut up, you,” she tells him, rudely. “You started this, stop being a sore loser.”

“nnNN!”

Eleanor points to Johnny. “You’re the one who picked Will as Henry’s second, right?”

Johnny looks at her, askance. Not many manage to muzzle Anthony when he’s running rampant. “Yes?” he hazards.

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t make things up,” Johnny retorts. 

“Well then, there you are,” says Eleanor to Anthony. “Now stop being a bully.”

Anthony grabs her wrist and does something -- probably bites her hand with how she shrieks and slaps him. Will doesn’t like to get involved in family tiffs, but he feels he owes Eleanor at least a little, and wades in to separate the two as it devolves. And, by the end of lunch, Henry is indeed declared the winner of the Dare. 

But that was years ago, and miles away, and far, far removed from the murder and mud of the trenches. Late at night when the ghosts have settled into the weave of his tunic, and brush their cold fingers up and down his arm like gentle reminder, Will cannot help but close his eyes and chase after the memory of when things were simpler, gentler, when nothing was more pressing than chasing after old legends and midnight walks down a quiet lane.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to Ealasaid for helping me pull this fic together, it would have been a very different beast were it not for her guiding hand and marvelous assistance with the ending. 
> 
> This is my Fandom-Marriage wedding gift to you, my Dear. I hope you enjoy it.


End file.
